


Courtesy Call

by JenniferNapier



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Anxiety, Dinner, Gen, Mike becomes the middle man, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sort Of, aka matchmaker, bluechristmeth, bluechristmeth2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: When Lydia loses contact with Gustavo, she goes to great lengths to regain a connection with her business partner.
Relationships: Gustavo Fring & Lydia Rodarte-Quayle, Gustavo Fring/Lydia Rodarte-Quayle, Mike Ehrmantraut & Lydia Rodarte-Quayle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Blue Christmeth 2019





	Courtesy Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WithoutAQualmOfConscience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutAQualmOfConscience/gifts).



> Part of the Blue Christmeth 2019 Secret Santa Exchange!
> 
> Canon point: After 'Better Call Saul' Season 4 Episode 2 "Breathe"  
> (Could also be considered a sequel to my other ficlet "Antipode" with Gus and Lydia.)

Within a single building in Houston, there lied an empire. It was a powerful empire that was steadily growing into something discreetly sinister, all thanks to the work of one tireless executive. In large black lettering, there loomed a ‘MADRIGAL’ across the glass panels of the building. In smaller lettering that acted as the foundation of the text laid above, there supported an ‘ELECTROMOTIVE.’

Behind the ‘GAL’ and ‘MOTIVE’ was an office. Executive Lydia Rodarte-Quayle’s office. 

Miss Rodarte-Quayle’s office was the prime example of efficiency and productivity. A picture of it could be found beside the definitions of ‘sleek’ and ‘modern,’-- at least, if you looked in the 2003 edition dictionary. Even then, the office was a few years ahead of its time, because every successful business (and businesswoman) knew that their success relied on looking ahead. The office was updated with the most expensive Macintosh computer. The majority of the room was composed of vacant floor space, pristine windows, and chairs that only pretended to be comfortable and inviting.

There were a few accessories on her desk; a pad to write upon, a black pen holder, and her thin white keyboard that she disinfected hourly. Only useful things, save for the single statue of a young ballet dancer, _ La Petite Danseuse de Quatorze Ans _ by Edgar Degas-- and a rolodex, which she only sometimes used.

There were times when Lydia was required to dial a special number. It was not on her contacts list, nor in her rolodex, nor written nicely on an index card tucked away in a secret drawer, or even locked within a safe. It was a number that only she knew, and that she kept tightly secured in the greatest safe of all; her memory.

When she found herself contemplating dialing that number, she either contemplated it for hours on end, or found herself needing to dial it without a second of hesitation to spare. Luckily, the latter only happened rarely. But this time, Miss Rodarte-Quayle contemplated dialing the number for days.

This was primarily because the last time she had dialed that number, the man behind it had hung up on her with a rather curt answer. One she had not wanted to hear. 

_ ‘Then I suggest you give the man a badge.’ _

When she finally decided to redial the number today, she took a large sigh through pursed, painted lips, wiped her hands down her pencil-skirted thighs, and then lifted her chin as he grabbed the sleek silver phone from her desk.

She was met with a monotone beat that informed her the number she’d dialed had been disconnected, or was no longer in service. Her usually large eyes widened further, and she clapped the phone down on the receiver as if the tones were counting down a bomb. Staring at it with guarded bewilderment, she punched in the memorized number again and hesitantly lifted it back to her ear. The same doom-bringing beat answered her.

She was about to panic, but she was startled out of it before it had even begun by the rapping of a man’s knuckles on her glass door. She looked up with a wild start, spotting Mike Ehrmantraut who was giving her a tired and already-out-of-patience look from the receptionist hall. Miss Rodarte-Quayle also saw her administrative assistant haranguing the man behind his shoulder.

Regaining her breath, Miss Rodarte-Quayle put down the phone and stood up from her desk. She smoothed down her pencil skirt and straightened her back on her way to the door, determined to put her concern over the broken number out of her mind for the time being-- at least while she dealt with whatever Mr. Ehrmantraut was here to see her for. 

“I’m here to pick up my badge,” he informed her in a gruff voice that was definitely already out of patience.

The executive refrained from mentioning that a little notice would have been nice. She invited him into her office and dismissed her administrative assistant with a mumbled, “Thank you, Janessa.” Miss Rodarte-Quayle ensured the door was tightly closed behind them, and pulled the blinds shut with a practiced yank of her delicate wrist. Her efforts to secure the privacy of the room did not go unnoticed by Mr. Ehrmantraut.

Miss Rodarte-Quayle retrieved Mr. Ehrmantraut’s badge from her cabinet, but did not place it into his waiting hand, instead fussing, “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I need to speak with you.”

“If you’re going to ask me not to pay a visit to your warehouses again, you’re wasting your breath.”

“It’s not that,” she shook her head tightly, like every muscle in her neck was as coiled like a spring. She fingered the plastic badge in her hands, doing her best to hide her agitation. “I tried calling Mr. Fring just now, and it appears that his number has been... disconnected. Or something,” she threw one frazzled hand up before quickly replacing it on the badge with the other.

Mr. Ehrmantraut’s deadpan expression did not change.

She glared at him, expectant of some sort of explanation. When he didn’t give her one, she demanded, “Is everything  _ okay?” _

“Yeah, as far as I know,” he mumbled plainly. His hand was still outstretched for his badge.

“Well,  _ how _ far do you know?” Miss Rodarte-Quayle prompted urgently, appalled that he was being so calm and indifferent about this alarming news.

Mr. Ehrmantraut scoffed, “What, are you  _ concerned _ about ‘im?”

She grew defensive, and muttered as if he were stupid, “He’s my _business_ _partner,_ of course I am.” She glanced to the man’s awaiting hand before returning her glare to his bulldog face. She wasn't going to give him his badge until he provided her some sort of closure on the matter.

“He’s fine. I just spoke with him.”

Miss Rodarte-Quayle looked offended. “What? Did he get a new number?”

“Yeah, he did,” Mr. Ehrmantraut blinked slowly. “Can’t imagine  _ why _ he didn’t give it to  _ you. _ Now will you give me my badge, so I can leave?”

_ “Why _ did he change numbers?” Miss Rodarte-Quayle demanded. “Something must have happened.” She could only imagine what could have gone wrong, and her imagination was very extensive.

“No, nothing happened.” Mr. Ehrmantraut shook his head, stopping her train of thought before she could assume the worst and then do something rash that would cause a heap of trouble for the three of them. “You ever think that maybe he just didn’t want to get any more  _ annoying _ calls from you?”

“You make it sound as if I call him regularly– which, I don’t.” Miss Eodarte-Quayle glowered.

Mr. Ehrmantraut made a face and stepped closer, more than ready to accept his badge and get the hell out of Houston. Driving all the way there for something as stupid as this was a great waste of his valuable time.

Miss Rodarte-Quayle tucked the badge closer to her stomach, not done with the conversation yet. “How am I supposed to contact him?”

“He’ll contact you.” Mr. Ehrmantraut emphasized firmly. “When he needs to.”

With an upset expression, Miss Rodarte-Quayle reluctantly handed the security consultant his badge. He left without another word.

* * *

In the next few days, Mike put his new badge to good use. He had to admit, the security of Madrigal’s warehouses had greatly improved since he’d taken on the task of tightening up their shipments. He was at it again that day, patching holes and cracks in their receiving procedures with a clipboard in his hand, a stopwatch in his pocket, a helmet on his balding head, and a pair of clear safety goggles perched on his age-spotted nose.

He was almost enjoying himself, quietly scratching down some data in undisturbed peace-- until his cell began vibrating. With a deflating sigh, he stared at the name on the screen before punching the green button with his thumb. He gave Miss Rodarte-Quayle a less than enthused greeting of, “Hello.” 

“Are you in my warehouse?”

He glanced around himself to sarcastically make sure. “Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Working,” he answered, lazy gaze wandering over to a pallet stack of air filters. “Did you need somethin’?”

“Is everything alright? I still haven’t heard from Mr. Fring.”

“Then he hasn’t needed to talk to you,” Mike blinked slowly.

“Well, I need to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“I need to have a private conversation with him,” Miss Rodarte-Quayle’s voice insisted. “And urgently. I know you have his new number. I need you to give it to me.“

Mike shifted his stance and ensured that no one was nearby before muttering, “Look, How about I send a message  _ for _ you? How’s that?”

“Fine,” she scoffed, clearly not satisfied with that solution. “Tell him that we need to discuss the finances of the… operation. I found an error in our numbers and I need to go over them with him right away. At his earliest convenience.”

Mike held his cell against his ear with his shoulder and pulled out a secondary phone, texting Mr. Fring with it. “Alright. It’s sent,” he grumbled when it was done. “Be seeing you.“

“Wait, what did you send?”

“The message you just told me to send.”

“Word for word?”

“No,” Mike shook his head in disbelief at the woman’s finicky nature.

“What did you send him, exactly?” she persisted.

Mike sighed and flipped open the spare cell phone again, reading over the text, “I said, ‘Lydia needs to talk money with you.’ That good enough for you?“

“No. That’s terrible.” Miss Rodarte-Quayle’s voice snapped. “That alludes that I’m changing what we agreed upon for my personal gain, and that is not what I--You should have said exactly what I told you. This would be easier if I just did it myself.“

Mike wasn't at all concerned. His tired eyes returned to his second phone as it dinged quietly. “Oh, goodie, he just replied,” he told her in a dreary tone.

“What did he say?”

“He said he’ll discuss finances with you at the end of next quarter.”

Miss Rodarte-Quayle was astonished. “No, no that won’t work for me at all. Will you tell him to call me?”

Mike sighed again, texting. Then he finally flipped his second phone shut and pocketed it. “I told him.”

_ “What _ did you tell him?”

“That you want him to call you,” Mike growled.

“For  _ business _ matters.”

The man made a face, “Do I really have to clarify that?”

Lydia didn’t answer immediately, finally deciding curtly, “No.”

“Good. I’m not a matchmaker.”

It was then that a very cross Miss Rodarte-Quayle hung up on him.

* * *

The executive waited at her desk, staring at her phone, for the rest of the day. She did not attend her meetings. She did not accept any distractions from her coworkers or her assistant. She did not begin any task that she could not immediately abandon when that phone rang.

But the phone did not ring.

The lights of the surrounding offices shut off one by one, and when her assistant asked if she’d like her to stay late as well, Lydia shook her head and dismissed her. A few hours later, the executive finally left the darkened building. Mr. Fring would not call her office this late into the evening. Miss Rodarte-Quayle kept her cell phone on ringer all through the night, and hardly gained a wink of sleep.

* * *

Mr. Ehrmantraut was cooking eggs for his granddaughter’s breakfast when Lydia called him next. With a scowl directed at his phone, he flipped it open and pinned it against his ear with his shoulder. “What do you want now? I’m busy.”

“I still haven’t heard anything from Mr. Fring. I need you to  _ make him _ call me.”

“That is  _ not _ my job,” Mike growled, keeping his voice low so his granddaughter wouldn’t hear him from the other room.

“You will do it or I will fire you.”

Mr. Ehrmantraut laughed as he scraped the skillet with a spatula. “Oh, that’ll be a  _ great _ way to make Gus give you a call. A very angry call.“

“Then I’ll do it,” Lydia threatened. Before he could decide if she was bluffing or not, she continued, “I need to speak with him, Mike. And I would prefer not to have to go to that extent, but if you leave me no choice...“

“Fine. I’ll text him again. Happy?”

“Not until I hear from him,” she testified.

Mike ended the call with an extra hard push of his thumb on the red button.

More than an hour later, Lydia’s office phone rang. She sprang up, having dozed off upon her folded arms, and scrambled to pick up the phone, brushing some escaped strands of black hair behind her ear.

“He says he’s not at anyone’s beck and call, not even mine.” Mr. Ehrmantraut’s voice was less pleasant and patient than usual. “Now I’m not going to bother my boss again. If you’re so eager to talk to him, why don’t you just get off your ass and go talk to him?” he spat.

“Goodbye, Lydia.”

He hung up.

Lydia closed her eyes and dropped the phone back onto the receiver before defeatedly returning her head upon her folded arms.

* * *

It had been a few weeks since Miss Rodarte-Quayle had visited Los Pollos Hermanos, but shortly after that call, she’d cashed in a couple days of her rarely-used vacation time to take a short trip to Albuquerque. She went to the last location she’s met Mr. Fring in, but was informed that he was not there that day. She discovered that he was last seen in a more northern location, and promptly sped north. But he wasn't there either.

“This is ridiculous. I need you to call him,” the executive snapped.

“Mam, if you’d like to file a complaint, we--”

“No, I’d like to speak with Mr. Fring, and I need you to call him this instant.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, mam.”

The employee didn’t budge on the matter, and Lydia was forced to storm off in her heels, throwing threats of unemployment behind her shoulder. She slammed the driver side door, shutting herself in her car, where she ripped off her sunglasses and held her head in her hands, torn between frustration and despair.

When she arrived back at her hotel room, she was stopped by the clerk.

“A letter for you, miss.”

Miss Rodarte-Quayle took the note and glared at it suspiciously. There was no postmark, no stamp, no date. Her glare shattered when she recognized Mr. Fring’s handwriting. Hurrying to her room, she dropped her purse in the entryway and locked the door firmly behind her, fumbling with the sliding bolt before tearing into the hand-delivered letter.

It was a letter inviting her to dinner the next evening at 1213 Jefferson St.

* * *

Mr. Fring’s house looked like an entirely ordinary house in the upper middle class range, fairly newly built, and fitting in perfectly inconspicuously with every other house in the neighborhood. Nothing about it stood out at all, not even the small valet driveway which Miss Rodarte-Quayle nicely parked in. Some humble holiday string lights hung at the edges of the house, simple and suitable for the time of year. Miss Rodarte-Quayle gazed at the residence, feeling very nervous as she stepped up to the porch and gave the doorbell a firm push.

“Hello, Miss Quayle.”

The executive felt a bit of a strange relief at seeing him again. She never felt anything when seeing him, but after all the trouble she’d gone through in the past week, it was rewarding to finally reach him. So she might have let a small smile escape her lips before forcing a less than happy look on her face. “Long time, no see,” she returned with a hint of womanly bitterness.

“Indeed,” Mr. Fring smiled warmly. “Come inside.”

Lydia stepped in and began taking off her coat, eyeing the house with a dosage of scrutiny before her gaze wandered over to the kitchen, where heavenly scents wafted from the set table. The house was immaculate, and inviting, and again very ordinary-- nothing what she expected, but she figured she should have known better. She should have known  _ him _ better, and then perhaps his flawlessly groomed house wouldn’t have been such a surprise.

He took her coat when she shed it, hanging it upon a rack where she noticed some other coats were already hung. Small ones. A puffy pink one that would fit a younger child, and a nice black one that a preteen might love. She caught sight of matching boots beneath them on the mat. Beside it, on the shoe rack, some girls’ sandals, and dress flats, such as the kind that would be worn to church.

Lydia tried not to stare at the children’s apparel, and instead allowed herself be welcomed into the dining room.

“I understand that you have been quite eager to get a hold of me.”

She awkwardly allowed him to pull out a chair for her, then stiffly took a seat. “It seems to me like you have been quite eager to  _ avoid _ me,” she countered, keeping a defensive facade of cold-shouldered offense.

“I have not been avoiding you,” Gus smiled, humored by her slightly pouty countenance. “I have merely tightened up security measures,” he explained as he took his own chair across the table. The dinner was already plated with Chilean dishes of various colorful, flavorful sorts.

“You do not eat meat, correct?”

Lydia dragged her hawk eyes over the food and shook her head. The dish laid at her mat did not appear to contain any meat, but she still wondered what ingredients had been tucked inside the ravioli-looking bundles on her plate. “Not lately, no.”

“Then you’ll like the humitas,” he hummed with gentle optimism. “They’re made with corn, onion, garlic, and basil steamed in a husk. Try it. There are also potatoes, and ensalada,” he gestured across the table.

Lydia picked up her fork-- which was barren of any water spots, she appreciated-- and tried the meal. It was rather delicious, and she almost suspected that he’d had the entire spread catered from a high end restaurant. The scent of spices and a warm stove that had permeated through his house disproved her disbelieving suspicion. But she didn’t dwell on how impressed she was at his cooking, instead returning to a topic she was more comfortable discussing.

“I would like to be able to reach you if the need suddenly arises,” she swallowed. “We are partners in a very delicate business.”

“We are,” he agreed. “Therefore, the less direct connections we have with each other, the better.”

Yet he had invited her personally to his house. She wasn't going to use that against him in the argument, but she did ponder how his actions contradicted his words.

She set her fork down, leaned her elbows upon the edge of the table, and glared across it with concern weaving through her plucked brows. “I save your number in my head. I never write it down. I never call on any line that isn’t secure, or make tracks that I can’t clean up. I am very careful. If you doubt that about me--”

“I do not doubt that about you, he interrupted, dabbing a napkin to his lips. “But sometimes... you are  _ so _ careful that you get... anxious. And that can be a risk.”

“I’m not a risk,” she growled, hurt. 

“I didn’t say _you,_ _were.”_ Mr Fring clarified softly. “I said that your _behavior,_ _can_ be.”

Miss Rodarte-Quayle was calmed by this, but she picked at her plate. Not because she didn’t like the food-- she rather loved it-- but because she had grown somber. “I’ll admit I can be an anxious person. You knew that when you started doing business with me,” she murmured with a hint of disgruntled shame.

“I did. And I chose to do it with you anyway.” He glanced up at her, lowering his fork and knife to rest his wrists on the edge of the table. “Because despite your anxiety, Miss Quayle, I think you trust me. And I value that.

She slowly dragged her eyes up to meet his, and stopped picking at her plate.

_ “Do  _ you trust me?” his head bowed.

She nodded earnestly.

“Good,” he returned his attention to his food. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Her expression scrunched in stung offense. “Why do you say that?”

“You had every right to think the worst when I cut communications with you. You had every reason to panic and feel unsafe,” he permitted.

Lydia shifted her shoulders, her elbows still firmly stationed upon the table. “I did at first, but Mike--” she corrected, “Mr. Ehrmantraut said nothing bad had happened.”

“Yes. And when you learned the business was secure, you continued to pursue me.” Mr. Fring pointed out calmly. “I could only surmise that it was because you did not trust me.”

“No.” Lydia furrowed her brow and shook her head. Tension still seized the movement in her neck. “It was because... I need you,” she told him with a reluctant mumble. There was no past tense in her confession. There was instead an ongoing, ever present tense in the words she forced out of her mouth.

Mr. Fring did not look at her, allowing her a small amount of privacy so she could hide behind in her vulnerable moment. But he did smile softly, as if he had already known that, and as if he enjoyed hearing her admit it.

Finally, he did look up at her guarded expression. “You have me. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” He assured her as if he were assuring a child who was concerned about silly things.

Lydia contemplated his words, finding herself internally stuck as she struggled to interpret them in a strictly-business regard. But eventually, they passed through her mental filters of lie and truth, professional and personal, and settled somewhere comfortably in her mind.

“So will you give me your new number?” she asked, having been given an inch and yearning for a mile.

He smirked, and he  _ rarely _ smirked. “I will give you my number when you need to have it.”

She was not satisfied with that answer, and her expression showed it, so Mr. Fring added a fond, “Trust in me.”

Miss Rodarte-Quayle started eating again, welcoming a few moments of silence for her to brood as she chewed. When she got over the fact that she’d still have to wait to regain her method of communication with him, she glanced to the entryway and hesitantly mentioned in a low whisper, “I didn’t know you had kids.”

“Yes.” He followed her gaze to the coatrack. “Two girls. They visit every now and then.” More silence passed, until he returned, “And how is your daughter?”

“She’s... learning piano.” Miss Rodarte-Quayle disclosed carefully.

“How lovely,” he complimented. “She’s at home?”

Lydia nodded. “With a sitter.”

“You should spend more time with her.” Mr. Fring advised. “You never know how quickly circumstances can change.” His words did not come across as a threat. In fact, Lydia may have wondered if he was talking about other things-- things not related to business, for once. “Family is the most important thing. It is why we do what we do,” he murmured.

She dipped her head and suddenly terribly missed her daughter. Trying to change the subject to something easier for both of them, she complimented the humitas. Before long, they inched into a discussion about food, which Mr. Fring was more than willing to dive into. Lydia found herself more than willing to listen.

Gustavo was rather passionate about food, claiming that it was a crucial part of the traditions and heritages of every culture. He claimed that it was simultaneously a primal need and an art form that united people around the world, from the very poorest to the very wealthiest. That was when the entrepreneur transitioned into a speech about how community engagement was just as important to his business model as the quality of its product.

Lydia began to suspect that Los Pollos Hermanos wasn’t only a cover for his cartel business. She began to suspect that it was also something more, though she would probably never know the extent of what ‘more’ it was. Gustavo had contributed to far more charities than what was necessary to maintain a good image for the sake of covering up his underlying crimes.

“I don’t imagine that Madrigal Electromotive has much community interaction,” he invited her back into the conversation. “On a local level, at least.”

“No, we don’t.” Lydia had finished her humitas, and had moved on to the salad. Madrigal Electromotive surely was not as welcoming, family-oriented, or community focused as Los Pollos Hermanos.

“Can’t feed people  _ air filters,” _ she grumbled with a certain sarcastic look aimed down towards her plate.

Gustavo chuckled. It was a quiet chuckle, but an earnest one. Lydia looked up, having never heard him laugh before. She huffed some humor out from her lips as well, inadvertently grinning. It was a small grin, but an earnest one. Gustavo had never seen her grin before.

That night, Miss Rodarte-Quayle didn’t see him as a drug lord or a business partner that she should be cautious around. That night she saw a glimpse of what he once was. A husband and a father. But most primarily, that night she saw him as what he actually was. Just a man. Daresay, a good man. At least a decent one, or one who was damn good at pretending to be one.

The truth was that she didn’t know him all that well. But she allowed herself to be fooled by that ‘just a man’ facade-- if that was what it was; a facade. Either way, she quite liked seeing him as just a man, and she could afford to give in to his charisma, if only for one night. 

Because she did trust him.

He was a rock that she could use to tie off her boat in the middle of a raging, wind-swept sea. Now she knew-- now she  _ believed-- _ that even if she couldn’t see or touch her lifeline; it was still there, hidden under the dark sea, holding her steady in the tides of the storm that surrounded them.


End file.
